Stylus 2020 Winners by styluslit

A Journal of Poetry, Prose, & Art

2020 Winners Edition

Editors and Staff Editors-in-Chief Art Editors Audio/Performance Editor Layout Editors Editors Poetry Prose Editors Social Media Editor Treasurer

Ethan Welsh & Balbina Yang Rao (Michelle) Li & Joan Rhee Rahul Jain Will Lee & Vivian Yeh Matthew Herskovitz & Amadea Oberg Alice Bi & Gabriella Meléndez Neida Mbuia-João Marjorie Antonio

Copy Editors Matthew Herskovitz Rahul Jain Gabriella Meléndez Ethan Welsh Balbina Yang Cover Artist Vivian Yeh

With Help And Support From: Marjorie Antonio, Stylus 2021 Co-Editor-in-Chief Johnna Schmidt, Stylus Advisor Vivianne Salgado Jacqueline Mueck

Editors’ Note This edition is late. Not a few weeks late, not even a few months. It is now Spring 2021, and the cherry blossoms are in bloom again. When students left campus in March 2020 due to the pandemic, our production process was rushed, marked with tightening SGA budget restrictions and the overwhelming pressure to finish Stylus 2020. Due to this abbreviated process and the overall chaos of the year, we neglected and deeply failed our community on one of the main purposes of our journal: to recognize and celebrate UMD’s incredibly talented creatives. In other words, Stylus 2020 inadvertently excluded our JiménezPorter Literary Prize Winners. We sincerely apologize to the readers, Writers’ House, Stylus, and most importantly, the winners, who had been so excited to see their work displayed only to be disappointed to find them absent in Stylus 2020. In an attempt to make up for this mistake, we are publishing an edition to highlight and honor their works. Thus, here is Stylus 2020 Winners Edition. This edition is the first of its kind and is dedicated to the JiménezPorter Literary Prize winners as well as the Cabrini Art Award winners. Most notably, we would like to dedicate this edition to Ray Newby, who kindly served as a voice for all the winners from last year when he informed us of our oversight. Within these pages, you will be entranced by works that exhibit depth, emotion, and color to a stunning degree. We hope that they will spark reflection and conversation as they are pieces that can provide escapism amid a world that is still healing. Marjorie Antonio & Balbina Yang Editors-in-Chief 4

Table of Contents Editors and Staff Editors’ Note Table of Contents Awards

3 4 5 6

CABRINI ART AWARD outburst, Alice Bi After a Night of Coffee, Balbina Yang Waiting To Be Impressed, Cassiel Arcilla

10 13 14

JIMÉNEZ-PORTER LITERARY PRIZE: PROSE And the Water Called Her, Chidinma Opaigbeogu The Giant, Nina Holtz A Less Preferable Alternative to Divorce, Amanda Bachman

19 22 32

JIMÉNEZ-PORTER LITERARY PRIZE: POETRY Docility in Limbo & i’ve been meaning to write to you again / 63.4 miles, Ray Newby 44, 46 I saw ‘Quan at the Family Dollar last weekend, Chidinma Opaigbeogu 50 Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One, Caitlin Lee-Hendricks 52

Winner Biographies Staff Biographies Acknowledgements Stylus and the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House Submission Guidelines

56 60 62 63 64 5

Awards CABRINI ART AWARD The Cabrini Art Award is an annual visual arts contest open to all University of Maryland undergraduates. The Award is administered by staff at the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House in hopes to bring more recognition to talented visual artists on campus. Judges review the pieces after names of artists have been removed, to preserve anonymity. 1st Place: Alice Bi for “outburst” 2nd Place: Balbina Yang for “After a Night of Coffee” 3rd Place: Cassiel Arcilla for “Waiting To Be Impressed” Judges: Marjorie Antonio studies Art History at the University of Maryland. She works at the Stamp Gallery, a contemporary art gallery, where she leads the bi-weekly Sketch Night program. She is a NextNOW Fest 2020 curator and an organizer for the local arts organization, Living Artists and Co. In her free time, she likes writing slam poetry and watching thrillers. Anjali Ravi was the editor-in-chief of Stylus from 2017-2019. She graduated from the University of Maryland, College Park with a BA in English and minor in Creative Writing. Currently she is training and volunteering at Kim Studio in College Park and working on applications for MFA programs. Camila Tapia is a recent graduate of the University of Maryland, having studied Studio Art, as well as Innovation and Entrepreneurship. Surreal, experimental, and playful, Camila dabbles in anything creative that piques their curiosity, such as fire dancing, music-making, hair cutting, and event organizing. They are the founder of Artsphere, a UMD art club, and Living Artists, a local arts collective. You can get in contact with them and find their work on Instagram @byunnaturalcauses.

JIMÉNEZ-PORTER LITERARY PRIZE The Jiménez-Porter Literary Prize is an annual writing contest open to all University of Maryland undergraduates. The Prize is going into its sixteenth year and is administered by staff at the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House. Judges read the manuscripts after names of authors have been removed, to preserve anonymity.

PROSE

1st Place: Chidinma Opaigbeogu for “And the Water Called Her” 2nd Place: Nina Holtz for “The Giant” 3rd Place: Amanda Bachman for “A Less Preferable Alternative to Divorce” First Round Judge: Ely Vance Final Judge: Meg Eden teaches creative writing at Anne Arundel Community College. She is the author of five poetry chapbooks, the novel Post-High School Reality Quest (2017), and the poetry collection Drowning in the Floating World (2020). She runs the MAGFest MAGES Library Blog, which posts accessible academic articles about video games (https://super.magfest.org/mages-blog). Find her online at www.megedenbooks.com or on Twitter at @ConfusedNarwhal.

POETRY 1st Place: Ray Newby for “Docility in Limbo” and “i’ve been meaning to write to you again / 63.4 miles” 2nd Place: Chidinma Opaigbeogu for “I saw ‘Quan at the Family Dollar last weekend” 3rd Place: Caitlin Lee-Hendricks for “Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One” First Round Judge: Emily Tuttle Final Judge: Shevaun Brannigan’s work has appeared in such journals as Best New Poets, AGNI, and Slice. She is a recipient of a Barbara J. Deming Fund grant and holds an MFA from Bennington College.

CABRINI ART AWARD

The Cabrini Art Award is an annual visual arts contest open to all University of Maryland undergraduates. The Award is administered by staff at the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House in hopes to bring more recognition to talented visual artists on campus. 1st Place: Alice Bi for “outburst” 2nd Place: Balbina Yang for “After a Night of Coffee” 3rd Place: Cassiel Arcilla for “Waiting To Be Impressed”

outburst, Alice Bi digital photography

JUDGES’ NOTES “outburst” "outburst" is what 2020 is currently: burning gasoline fuel and falling debris. We found that this was a very timely piece. On technicality, the artist did a remarkable job. The dystopian theme went well with a slightly symmetrical composition.

JUDGES’ NOTES “After a Night of Coffee” This painting gives an insight into a reason why people should not drink coffee after dark. There are so many layers in this piece and a remarkable depth. Camila pointed out that you are able to see a face in the middle of the painting and I haven't quite been able to un-see it. The tone lends itself to a macabre-scene, similar to how a student might feel during an all-nighter in McKeldin.

After a Night of Coffee, Balbina Yang pen and ink on paper 13

Waiting To Be Impressed, Cassiel Arcilla acrylic on canvas

JUDGES’ NOTES "Waiting To Be Impressed" I really liked the softness of this painting. The cool tones and rounded paint strokes gave it a dream-like quality. The technicality in this piece is one of its strengths, and overall very well executed. While the subject is waiting to be impressed, I already was.

JIMÉNEZPORTER LITERARY PRIZE PROSE

The Jiménez-Porter Literary Prize is an annual writing contest open to all University of Maryland undergraduates. The Prize is going into its sixteenth year and is administered by staff at the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House. Judges read the manuscripts after names of authors have been removed, to preserve anonymity.

Prose

1st Place: Chidinma Opaigbeogu for “And the Water Called Her” 2nd Place: Nina Holtz for “The Giant” 3rd Place: Amanda Bachman for “A Less Preferable Alternative to Divorce”

And the Water Called Her Chidinma Opaigbeogu I never met my great grandmother, and the only knowledge of her existence has been filtered through the patched quilt of my older family member’s memories. My aunt tells me her grandmother was a worldly seafarer, with brine and storm in her blood. My uncle agrees that the ocean called to her and that she was something of a pirate that tamed the seas with her courage and iron soul. He says she would plan escapades with her crew of elderly housewives and maids, and they would leave for weeks on end. When they returned, they would bring souvenirs of their conquests and the stories that accompanied their procurement. Once, they brought the head of a kraken that they had slayed with their kitchen knives. Another time, they brought a captive, a man who had boarded their ship at night and threatened to rape and kill them. Little did the stowaway know that the women before him came armed with guns they had stolen from their sleeping husbands. My older cousins, though they were only babies at the time, claim they still remembered how my great grandmother and her crew would bring back the smallest fingers of the evil, rival pirates who crossed them on the ocean. My cousins say she protected the town from the monsters, both animal and human, that lurked in the ocean. They say that everyone loved her. As I grow older, the seams in the patchwork memories of my great grandmother widen. Loose threads of her life tangle in contradictions, that my family try in vain to straighten. My great grandmother is redrafted as a town healer by my father. He speaks of her expertise with plants, and how her bitter leaf brew and pepper soup could bring a man back from the dead. His brother concurs, and whispers to me the stories of my great grandmother’s compassion, how she would brave storms to deliver Tom Toms, to children with sore throats. From there, the tales of her life backstitch, and she becomes the town’s midwife who doubled as a ship captain in her free time. My family is unable to extricate her life from the pull of water, but none of the grandeur of an ocean possessed matriarch feel true to me. I know my great grandmother had grown up in Igboland in the late 1800’s. There, she would have lived a content life as a mother or a seamstress. The closest she would have gotten to a body of water 19

as vast and dynamic as the ocean was when she made the trip to a Niger River tributary every morning where she would hoist a heavy urn of languid water onto her head before beginning the miles long trek back to her village. A pirate, a matriarch, an independent woman with a gun and a band of other rebel women were anachronisms born by the lens of American history and culture that my older family has donned. I fear my great grandmother’s story is too knotted with the red, white, and blue of our present to ever be salvaged. When I ask my mother, who her grandmother was she weaves for me a storm blue ichafu. She tells me my great grandmother had disappeared into the night, leaving all her belongings behind. She says her grandmother was afraid of water, ever since she watched from the shadows as her older sister was dragged onto a boat when she was fourteen. My mother weaves faster now, her fingers threading the panic of her missing grandmother into the scarf. She weaves in the memory of her village’s search through the wooded pathways, their muddy trek through flooded rivers and how they plunged their arms into the frigid water, just to pull them out and find them tangled with each other’s. She recounts the frantic prayer circles, the sight of the elders prostrated before a fire, sparking to heaven as their lips formed supplications to Chukwu. They prayed away the speculation of slavers capturing my great grandmother and forcing her to their cargo ships just as they had done to her older sister. My mother’s fingers slow as she stitches the village’s mourning, pricking her fingers on the ragged memory of the village’s morning roll call, and its revelation that still more of their people had gone missing in the night. She finishes her ichafu and wraps it tight around my neck, and I feel the scratch of the ankara against my skin. My mother says she wishes her grandmother had learned to swim.

Ankara—a wax fabric used to make clothing, indigenous to West Africa Chukwu—an Igbo God Ichafu—a Nigerian scarf typically worn by women on the head Igboland—a region of Nigeria indigenous to the Igbo people Tom Tom—a mint flavored menthol candy

JUDGES’ NOTES “And the Water Called Her” What a solid, evocative, and complex story. The speaker captures the elusive nature of family history, making the reader consider the narratives they carry. As the speaker beautifully says, the memories of the great grandmother “were anachronisms born by the lens of American history and culture that my older family has donned. I fear my great grandmother’s story is too knotted with the red, white, and blue of our present to ever be salvaged.” This writer hits at some incredible universal truths, including why we create stories in the first place, and the need to preserve where we come from.

The Giant Nina Holtz “Do you think that if you take the shells off snails they become slugs?” Zoe asked as she balanced on the slick stones at the edge of the creek. It was a hot day in mid-July and crickets whirred in the trees like a pulsing heartbeat. “Snails and slugs are totally different things,” Benji said. He had picked up a twisted branch from the ground and was using it as a walking stick, poking at leaves and moving rocks out of the way. “Besides, snails are attached to their shells, like turtles.” “I thought they were like hermit crabs. Hermit crabs have to move into bigger shells when they get older.” She hopped from one stone to the next as they moved down the creek, arms outstretched to balance. She’d gone through a growth spurt over the summer, and now stood half a head taller than Benji. Sometimes, the pain in her legs was so bad at night that she could only hug her knees to herself and cry until she fell asleep. The result was all elbows and angles, with clothes that were somehow both too small and too big at the same time. “How long do you think until we get there?” she asked Benji. That afternoon, they had embarked on a mission to find what was at the end of the creek, but after 45 minutes of walking they were beginning to lose hope. “Almost there,” Benji said, although he didn’t know the answer. In contrast to Zoe he was short and stocky, with dark eyes and messy black hair. He’d spent the past few weeks trying not to think about how Zoe was now taller than him. They fell into silence, enjoying the sound of birds overhead. After another ten minutes, the trees fell away, revealing a large clearing in the woods. “A lake!” Zoe exclaimed, running forward. The thin stream of the creek widened into a pool of water covered in a layer of green algae. It stretched across the clearing, the few parts free of algae sparkling in the sunlight.

“Zoe, look!” Benji said, pointing behind the lake. Stretched out on the opposite side of the water was a sleeping giant. His face was lined and angular, as though carved out of stone, his mouth a jagged slash. His eyes were closed, and his hair fell down in ragged clumps around his ears. He seemed to be wearing simple clothing, but it was hard to tell because of the leaves and dirt that covered his form. As he lay on his side on the ground, they could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Most impressive was his size. Zoe was as tall as his big toe. “Is that—” Zoe began, but Benji quickly covered her mouth with his hand, pressing a finger to his lips. “We don’t want to wake him up,” Benji whispered. Zoe nodded her understanding and he dropped his hand. “—a giant?” she whispered, finishing her sentence. “Looks like it,” Benji whispered back. “A giant,” Zoe repeated, her eyes wide with wonder. She rocked back and forth on her feet, filling with energy. “We found a giant!” “We can’t tell anyone,” Benji said, still keeping his voice low. Zoe frowned. “Why not?” “It’s in all the books. When you find something magical, you’re not supposed to tell anyone. It’s like government experiments, or they think you’re crazy,” Benji said. “Alright.” Zoe nodded. “Should we make a blood pact or something then?” Benji paled. “Can we do a blood pact with no blood?” he asked weakly. Zoe paused, thinking for a moment. Then she walked up to the lake and scooped a handful of algae out of the water. It coated her fingers in a green sludge. She held up her palm to Benji, and he clasped his hand to hers, the algae squishing between their fingers. “Repeat after me,” she said. “I swear…” “I swear…” Benji repeated. 23

“To tell no one about the giant.” “To tell no one about the giant.” “To show no one the lake.” “To show no one the lake.” “To protect the giant unless he’s bad.” “To protect the giant unless he’s bad.” “And to do whatever Zoe tells me to.” “What! No!” “Amen.” “Amen.” They pulled their hands apart, and turned to look at the giant. He hadn’t moved, though their voices had grown gradually louder. As they watched, he let out a deep exhale, and they breathed out in return. **** When Zoe returned home, the lights were off. She let herself in with the key hidden in the ceramic frog by the doorway. The inside of the house was quiet, the only sound the distant echo of the TV coming from her mother’s bedroom. She peeked into the room. Her mother was lying in bed, her form outlined by the dying evening sunlight coming through cracks in the blinds. Her eyes were focused on the TV, face appearing like a skeleton’s as it flashed blue, red, blue, from the colors of the screen. Empty pill bottles and dirty plates piled on the dresser and bed. “Mom?” Zoe asked. Her mother turned to see her. “Oh, Zoe,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling very tired today. Could you make yourself dinner?” “Okay,” Zoe said. She closed the door the room. In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink. She opened the freezer door and sifted through its contents before pulling out a bag of frozen chicken nuggets, which she stuck in the microwave. The machine whirred and spun the bag in a slow circle. When the chicken was done, she sat down on the couch and flipped through the channels, passing 24

Disney, Nickelodeon, PBSkids, before settling on Shark Week. On screen, a Great White Shark closed its jaws around a seal, leaking blood into the water like ink. Zoe bit into a half-frozen nugget, chewed. The british narrator explained that sharks shake their heads to rip of chunks off flesh, killing their prey by shredding it to pieces. The seal’s tail flailed once, before its body fell limp. Zoe looked down at the chicken nugget in her hand and put it back in the bag. “Zoe?” Zoe looked up. Her mother was standing in the hallway, hugging a blue bathrobe around herself. Her hair hung in thin strands to her shoulders. “What are you watching?” “Shark Week.” “Oh.” Her mother frowned. “Alright.” She turned and walked into the bathroom. Bits of seal flesh floated in the water. Zoe changed the channel. Benji walked home in the fading summer sunlight. Rows of houses lined the sidewalk, and he missed the fresh smell of the woods. His house was at the edge of a cul-de-sac, a cramped three-bedroom home with a rusted tricycle sitting out on the lawn. The door was unlocked. The moment Benji stepped inside he heard the signature sound of Kate screaming. She screamed when Benji’s mother opened the bag of frozen peas, she screamed as the peas were boiled, she screamed as the peas were put on the table, she screamed as she was stuffed in the high chair, she screamed as the peas were put in front of her, she screamed as Benji’s dad pretended to be an airplane, she screamed when the peas were removed and replaced with carrots, and she continued to scream as the rest of the family gave up and ignored her. Benji’s younger brother, Liam, meanwhile, was busy individually crushing each pea with his fork, which he then pushed together on his plate to create an enormous pile of pea sludge. He then ate the sludge with his mouth open while making gurgling noises and pretending to be an alien. Benji finished his dinner in silence, then asked his mother if he could be excused. She responded with a wave of her hand, once again absorbed in trying to get Kate to eat her vegetables.

Benji went up to his room, where he spent a satisfying hour organizing his Pokemon cards first alphabetically, then by type, then by the relative shininess of the cards. He then moved on to his bookshelf, which he re-organized by color. He knew tomorrow he would put it back in alphabetical order by author (the most practical system), but for now he sat back and enjoyed the rainbow array on his shelf. That night he dreamed a giant picked him up and put him on its shoulder, and together they wandered the Earth. **** “We should name him,” Zoe said, as they sat on top of the giant and looked out over the forest. It had taken them a week to build up the courage to climb onto the giant, beginning with Zoe hurling a rock at the his head to see if he would wake up (while Benji ran in the opposite direction). Now, they were confident that nothing would cause him to stir, and felt content as they relaxed and enjoyed the gentle rocking of his breathing. Benji paused, thinking. He was lying on his back and using his bag as a pillow. “What about Jack?” “Jack? You can’t name a giant after a giant killer!” Zoe exclaimed. “Well it should be something giant-related. What about Andre the Giant, like that guy from the Princess Bride?” Zoe jumped up, brandishing a stick she had found earlier as a sword. “My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father, prepare to die!” She started hitting his legs and arms with the stick until he stood up as well. “No fair! I’m unarmed,” Benji complained. “Use your backpack as a shield,” she said, dancing back and forth while hitting him with the stick. Taking her advice, he grabbed his bag to defend himself. “The backpack is only defense. I need a weapon!” He ducked as the stick went over his head, swiping at his hair. “Prepare to die!” she yelled again, hitting him harder with the stick. He howled and dropped the backpack, trying to grab the stick out of hands. The wrestled together for it, scratching and kicking. Benji pulled the stick toward him, but his feet slipped, and suddenly they 26

were both tumbling down the side of the giant and falling into the lake below. Benji hit the water first, soaking his clothes and catching wet leaves in his hair. Zoe followed after with a splash. There was a panicked moment where she couldn’t find the surface, until her feet hit the ground, and she stood up. From where they were standing in the lake, the water went up to their chests. Zoe started laughing first. A giggle that turned into laughing so hard that she couldn’t breath, only letting out small gasps as she flailed in the water. Benji started laughing too, helpless at the state of his hair and clothes. “My mom’s going to be so mad,” Benji said, shaking his head and smiling. Zoe’s laughter died. “Yeah. Mine too.” **** “Your dad and I have an announcement,” Benji’s mother said at dinner, as Kate continued to scream in the background. Liam paused pouring orange juice over his rice to look up, and Benji stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. Benji’s parents glanced at each other. His father gestured at his mother to continue speaking. His mother put on a smile and looked around the table. “You’re all going to have a new baby brother or sister!” There was silence around the table, except for Kate who was still screaming. “Oh,” Benji said, putting his fork back down on his plate. “May I please be excused?” **** It was beautiful on the giant’s back. He was as big as the tallest trees, and they could look out and see the rows of houses that bordered the forest. In the other direction, the woods stretched out for miles, ending in a haze of blue mountains. It was also cooler high up, and the breeze relieved the heat of the summer sun. They made the walk to the giant almost every day, and had begun to hide snacks and interesting rocks in his beard, which hung down in a thick curtain 27

almost to the ground. More often, they would enjoy the view in silence, only speaking to pass the water bottle back and forth. Both of them had grown tan and athletic from exploring the forest and from so many hours and climbing up and down the giant. “Hey,” Zoe said, catching Benji’s attention and breaking the silence. He turned to see she was holding a thin white cigarette in her hand, which glowed in the sunlight. “I found this in my mom’s things. Do you want to try smoking it?” Benji plucked the cigarette out of her hands and threw it down into the lake below. “Hey!” Zoe exclaimed, about to protest. She looked at the dark expression in Benji’s eyes and stopped her words. They lapsed back into silence. **** One day, they both fell asleep in the sun and woke up to darkness. There were more stars than either of them had ever seen before. From their place so high up above the forest, it seemed like they could reach up and pluck a star down from the sky as easily as changing a lightbulb. The moon, too, seemed close, its wide face peering down as if curious to see the children and their giant. Transfixed by the glow of the galaxy, they forgot all about worried parents. Their fingers inched closer together, and they held hands as they watched the stars. The moon guided them home through a forest filled with blue trees and dark wings. **** Benji’s mother opened the door before he finished climbing the steps to the house. “Where have you been?” she said, her face twisted in worry. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, still dazed by the moon. “I was out with Zoe.” She ushered him inside and sat him down at the table. There was a whirring sound as the microwave heated up his dinner. When she put the plate down in front of him, peas rolled out onto the table. 28

“Promise me you won’t ever do that again, okay? I’m serious. I was really really worried about you.” “I promise. I’m sorry.” He moved the peas around on his plate with a fork. “You know your dad and I love you, right, Benji? So much.” Benji looked down at his plate, feeling embarrassed. “I know.” **** The house was darker than usual when Zoe got home. The doorways looked hollow and empty, like open mouths. The only light spilled out from the bathroom, creating a yellow rectangle on the opposite wall. “Mom?” Zoe said, walking toward the bathroom. There was no response, so she sped up, rushing to see inside the room. Her mother was bent over the bathtub, her mouth crusted white and vomit filling the tub below. “Mom?” Zoe repeated. She shook her mother’s shoulder, but there was no response. Desperate, she shook her harder. Her mother’s body slid to the floor, her eyes half open and fluttering, gazing at the ceiling above. Zoe had a flash of an image of the seal, limp in the shark’s jaws. She ran to the phone. **** Zoe didn’t meet Benji at the edge of the forest for two weeks. Finally, on the last day of summer, he knocked on her door. An unfamiliar woman opened it. “Um…is Zoe home?” Benji asked. “Just one second,” the woman said, disappearing inside. After a moment, Zoe came to the door. She looked tired, her face pale and hair thin. “That’s my aunt,” she said. “My mom’s not feeling good, so she’s staying with us for a bit.” Benji nodded, unsure of how to respond. “Do you want to go to the lake?” he asked. She looked at him blankly, as though not processing the question. 29

Then said, “Okay.” They walked through the forest in silence, although this silence was somehow new and strange. It wasn’t the comfort of their old silence. Benji wanted to ask her what she thought about snails and slugs, but couldn’t get the words past his lips. After an hour of walking, they finally reached the lake. Benji breathed out a sigh, relieved that the giant was still there after their absence. His craggy face was fast asleep, and a few birds were picking through the snacks they had left in his beard. “Listen, I don’t really want to climb up some rocks right now, so could we actually just go back?” Zoe said. Benji’s heart stopped. “Some rocks?” “Yeah, we’ve been climbing up and down that dumb pile of rocks all summer, and I just don’t feel like it today. I’m tired.” “What about the giant?” “What?” Unbidden, tears filled Benji’s eyes. He blinked them away quickly. “I—” he said, but couldn’t finish the sentence. There was a great rumbling that shook the ground and Benji stumbled, throwing out his arms for support. Benji turned to look at the giant, who was moving. The giant’s frozen joints let out a loud creaking sound as they began to bend. Dirt, sticks, and leaves showered off his body as his form rose. He extended his arms over his head, and he let out a yawn that shook the trees. The rocky formations of his eyelids opened, revealing bright blue eyes that swept across the forest as he observed his surroundings. Apparently not seeing Zoe and Benji, he turned away, and now fully upright, walked in the direction that lead to the mountains. Each step caused an earthquake that shook Benji’s balance all over again. In just four enormous steps he was already far in the distance, shrieking birds circling his fading form. Zoe and Benji stared at the space he had left. “I need to get back to my mom,” Zoe finally said. “Yeah,” Benji said. “Okay.” 30

JUDGES’ NOTES “The Giant” This piece has solid writing and a keen eye for the important details that glue a story together. The writer carefully builds up the world and expectations, earning a wonderfully powerful ending. We all have different reasons we need to escape reality, and the speaker effectively builds the backgrounds of the main characters here so that we understand their individual and personal needs for escape. Even in the short space, I felt like I knew these characters well.

A Less Preferable Alternative to Divorce Amanda Bachman It was a Thursday, the day I usually took Maia to visit her father at the zoo. But it was raining outside; big, heavy droplets were streaming down our windows, and so the trip had to be delayed. Maia didn’t pout. She is a sensible child. Her hair is like mine, it curls when rain is nearby. “When it’s raining, do they take all the animals inside to keep them warm and safe?” “Yes. They have a lovely inside space for them. With warm hay and beds to sleep in and all their favorite things to eat.” “What do the giraffes like to eat?” “Apples, my darling. Apples and hay, and sometimes, on their birthdays, nice big medium-rare steaks with chocolate cake for dessert.” On Friday the sun had come out, so we prepared a little picnic for the trip. Maia was in the stage in which everything we did was a picnic. I chopped the apples into the kind of thin slices that wouldn’t hurt her teeth and she sprang around different rooms in search for her favorite blanket, the one with the farm animals on it. She chanted while she bounced: horse goes neigh, cow goes moo, dog goes bark, cat goes meow, except one time she’d asked me what would happen if a cow felt like neighing. I’m trying to instill in her the value of respecting choices made by other people so I could only say that of course a cow could go neigh, and now the little chant was varied with the choices and personalities and orientations of the different farm animals. Her friends parents weren’t pleased with me, but at least her allegorical farm was a place of freedom. The Brooklyn zoo was a subway stop and a fifteen minute walk for us. Distance used to not be such a bother to me, I remember nights from college wandering and wandering, in and out of boroughs,

from one side of the island and back. But having a child changes all that. Sometimes a block of the sidewalk is too far, there were bruises and skinned knees to be had or ladybugs to befriend or little corners where one could squat down to draw chalk hearts. She bounced on my knee while we rode on the subway. I have a particular fondness for the subway. For all forms of public transportation. On days when I feel too important, too weighed down by my own relevance, I like to ride the subway, and get away from myself. Before Maia’s father left for the zoo I used to go out and ride the subway alone to feel like myself again, and not just the person he had married. “Do we have time to visit Grandad too?” Maia asked, her eyes shining bright. I should have known she’d ask this, she’d packed the picnic basket especially heavy this week. “Well, Grandma isn’t staying with us this week. She likes to come along when we visit Grandad.” It was an excuse, and I immediately felt guilty, because who feels that they need to make excuses to their own child? I’d visited my father alone hundreds of times. I used to visit him every day after classes. He always wanted to talk to me about science, about what I was studying. He has such a curious mind, he always did. I remember him disappearing for an hour to the bookstore and come back with two books—one for me and one for him—about some topic: rainforest frog migrations, the Watergate scandal, advanced micro biscuit-making, the ethics of communism, so that we could learn together. I was so angry at my mother when it happened. Maia is too young to be angry with me now. I suppose that will happen later. I wonder if she’ll forgive me. I wonder if her father will forgive me. My father forgave my mother fairly quickly. “It’s not so bad like this.” He’d said. “At least I don’t have to work nine-to-fives anymore. I hated the Bureau. Now my days are freed up to think. I don’t know if anyone has ever had as much time with his mind as I will—I want to utilize it.” But since Maia’s father had also moved into the zoo my father hadn’t spoken to me much during my visits. I shouldn’t have ever introduced the two of them. My mother

had warned me. “We can see Grandad, sweetheart.” I relented, and Maia smiled to herself, as if she’d known that’s what I would say all along. I’ve never gotten a clear answer on if my family is unique. After it happened with my father I asked my mother for an explanation. I thought it had to be some sort of a family curse or hereditary witchcraft—I had never heard of another family where someone’s father had to leave to live at the zoo because he’d been turned into an emperor penguin before. I used to keep my ears pricked in the school bathrooms, or during sleepovers for hints of similar situations. “I’m sorry I can’t make it this Thursday—my father’s been turned into a rhinoceros and we need to take him to the vet because he can’t drive anymore.” “Ever since my mom was transformed into a giant African millipede and went to live in the insect exhibit I’ve been attending therapy twice a week—it’s been very helpful!” “I was a little upset my dad missed my recital, but it’s been hard for him to leave the Great Ape house ever since he was transformed into an orangutan. They insist that the orangutans stay where they are.” I would’ve died to hear a conversation like that. I would’ve given up birthdays for the rest of my life. But the trouble always was, if there were other families and other kids, they wouldn’t be saying so. I didn’t say so. So it just went on. And still goes on. Like that Simon and Garfunkel song about being an island. Sometimes I like to fantasize that every animal in the zoo is someone’s former parent, or partner or used to be somebody to someone before things changed. But then I see the way the animals behave, urinating in front of zoo guests or trying to mate with the animals in their enclosure and I hope very much that isn’t the case. The zoo was crowded on Fridays, there were many more school children there. Maia will be starting kindergarten next year, but I don’t like to think about that. I want to homeschool her but my mother has told me homeschooled children turn out ‘strange’ and I don’t want

Maia to feel strange. Her father is a giraffe, I think that should be enough strangeness for one’s lifetime. When we see him there is an elementary school field trip in between us and the giraffe enclosure. I have a little trouble recognizing him, but if I look I can use the shape of his spots—they look like a birthmark he used to have on his shoulder and are just slightly unusual if you look close enough. Maia could recognize him among a hundred giraffes, and she doesn’t even know about the birthmark. I once asked her how she was able to tell which one was him so quickly. “What do you mean? Nobody else looks like him.” She’d said dismissively, turning over a page in her coloring book. I’d left the room to stand alone in the kitchen after she’d said that. Of course she recognized her own father. The giraffes at the zoo live comfortable lives. It’s probably the most comfortable place for a giraffe to live in the city—that’s why we thought it’d be best if Maia’s father moved there. Their enclosure suits their size, and has many tall, shady trees so they don’t get too hot. There’s a shallow little pool of clean water, and on hot days I’m envious of them-it’s damn near impossible to find a pool for under $125 per month in the city. They eat mostly leaves and hay but get apples for treats. Maia and I always bring her father food he wouldn’t get from the keepers—he says his stomach can’t digest steak anymore but we do make chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing and bagels with cream cheese for him. The last time we’d visited them he’d been bizarrely compelled to tell me that he’d overheard the keepers saying that the zoo was looking for a female giraffe mate to be brought in for him. I wondered if he thought telling me this would make me jealous. Even more bizarre was that it worked. I wanted to fire back and ask if by ‘mating’ he meant being used as a sperm donor to artificially inseminate a female giraffe, because that’s how it’s done, but then I remembered I filed first, he wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for me anyway, so I didn’t. Maia and I have to wait until the orange-clad field trip leaves to

get our chance. We have a particular ledge we sneak to where the keepers can’t see us and our picnic. I don’t much mind the rules of the zoo anymore. I actually don’t much mind the rules of anywhere anymore. I’ve caught myself almost sleepwalking at the Met, tempted to go up and stroke the Rembrant paintings or speak angrily with the marble busts of Caesar. “Daaddddyyyyyyy!” Maia sings and waves an everything bagel with cream cheese at him. The giraffes are gathered at a tree, but the one with the strange spots breaks away to come to us. Maia dances and giggles as the giraffe bends its head to nuzzle her hair. To an onlooker it might look like he was eating her head. I’m glad he ended up a giraffe, and not a lion or a bear. That would’ve led to some awkward questions. “Hello Abigail. How are you. ” He said politely. It was harder to understand him now, giraffes have very long, dull black tongues that muffle speech. It wasn’t so easy to understand him back when he was a person as well though, he was quite the mutterer, so I was never perturbed by the transition. “Hi Daniel.” I said tensely. “I’m good. Sorry we missed you yesterday.” “I figured you might.” He sighed and I thought I saw some sarcasm in his large brown giraffe eyes.. “With all the rain. You look good.” He always did this. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. You too? Looks like they bathed you recently—that’s nice? Sometimes he looked completely unrecognizable to me. I’d heard a professor in my department say that about divorce, your previous partner becomes a stranger to you. I wonder how literally she’d meant it. One time I’d asked him how it felt when it happened. “Horrible.” He’d said. “Horrible, but not unexpected. I felt it coming on for months, especially when we were in the kitchen together. Or sometimes late at night after you’d go to sleep. Like when you feel the flu coming. There was this persistent pain in my neck and around my knees. I think I’d started having dreams where it happened. But that didn’t matter—it was still horrible all the same. Imagine changing your skin.” 36

“Do you feel more yourself? I mean—did it get better? Is it better?” “I feel more—someone different. Less the guy you were married to. More something else. It took a long time to stop being painful. I kept missing limbs that weren’t there and forgetting the ones that were. I bumped into trees so often the vets thought I’d get a concussion.” I’d told him then, about those subway rides I used take back during our marriage in order to feel less like his wife and more like myself again. He nodded. “More that. But I miss Maia. And our home. Do you think if it happened to you, you would have turned into a subway car?” We’d both laughed at that. It hasn’t happened to me though. I’ve tried. I spent years when I was younger, visualizing the slippery feathering feel of my father’s new penguin skin, and trying to impart it onto myself. Then there were nights, after we moved Daniel to the giraffe house where I longed to feel what it was like to stretch my calves and neck and tower over people. To not be able to fit in an apartment, and dangle my head out the window and look up to the apartments above. To have that great, lopping black tongue. To be part of a pair with Daniel again. But I stay the same. My mother used to say there was no point in changing ourselves—we were women, and mothers, that was strange enough. We’d both had people grow inside of us. She maintains that there is nothing odd with my family, just the unfortunate products of loud, stubborn, un-wifely ladies who, try as they might, could never fit themselves into the box of whatever it was their husband’s thought they were. Someone nicer, and smaller. Someone whose feet didn’t stink after a day of walking in the city or who didn’t shout at everyone else when they were hungry. And eventually, naturally, that repression and frustration builds up, and one day you turn someone into a giraffe. Not the best, but couldn’t really be avoided either. I get her point, but I don’t think she’s right. I think if I hadn’t turned Daniel into a giraffe, he might have turned me into a subway seat first. Women don’t really have a monopoly on being uncomfortable in marriage. After we left Daniel we stop by my father’s enclosure. The penguins 37

are such jolly little creatures, hopping and swimming around in water or sunning on rocks. It’s strange how much it suits him, he was always a swimmer, always a social man, joining clubs and unions and going out for tennis and other things. We find him shaking off after a swim. He is delighted to see Maia. “How’s your mother?” He asks me. “She’s okay. She’s still living out in the Adirondacks.” “With her new fancy man?” “Yes, with Kevin. They’ve been married for four years now.” “I wouldn’t know. It’s hard to tell when you’re a penguin. No one lets you near any clocks. How is Daniel?” “He’s fine. He’s getting a mate, he’s excited about that.” “Good for him. And you?” “I’m working on my writing. And Maia is starting kindergarten soon, so we’re getting excited about that.” I know he wants to hear if I’m dating again. Both he and my mother keep telling me “there are other fish in the sea” and now I have recurring nightmares about a man I’m having dinner with turning into fish and being mistaken by the chef for the main course. Lately I’ve been wondering what it feels like to be me. A teacher asked us to think about that in my creative poetry writing workshop I attended on Tuesday nights. Actually, she asked us how it feels to read the poem we were working on, but I couldn’t get interested in the poem. How does it feel to be a single mother, out of so many single mothers. There must be an army of us in this city alone. How does it feel to have to take my daughter to the zoo and wait behind a field trip group every time she wants to be part of a family. It’s not even strange to her. One day she’ll grow up and realize that a family can’t have one giraffe and one person but part of the heartache at that age is you just keep insisting “well why not? Well why not?”

I think about trying to move Daniel back to the apartment. I think if he wasn’t a giraffe, I would’ve done it already. But then I think about how it would be if I asked, and he told me he didn’t want to move back to the apartment, that he was happy with his new giraffe girlfriend, and I’m glad I never asked in the first place, because that would be horribly embarrassing. It’d be easier with my father. But he’d feel out of place. He never lived with me and Maia. And he’s told me the socialization among penguins is delightful. I wish I could know those sorts of things, but I’m stuck in the same body I’ve always had. How does that feel. Sometimes I wish I could ride the subway alone again, to remember who I am when I’m not around Maia, but then I become afraid she’ll turn into something too. Besides, it’s an evil thought, to imagine myself without her. She needs me, she’s starting kindergarten soon. She can’t start kindergarten as a giraffe. It feels fine, that’s how it feels. Fine on some days, dreadful on others. I used to wake up weighed down by guilt sitting on my chest. But these days I don’t feel it anymore. It just feels the way it feels. Me and Maia have picnics and eat them on the floor of the living room. She sings her little song while she looks for her picnic blanket. We look for ladybugs on the sidewalk and I buy her books like my dad used to for me. She doesn’t have a father. I don’t have a husband, or a father. How does it feel?

JUDGES’ NOTES “A Less Preferable Alternative to Divorce” This piece stuck with me long after I read it. It is so unique and memorable with its wonderfully bizarre magical realism and great sense of humor. Underneath the fun premise of male family members becoming animals that must be housed at the zoo lies some thought-provoking commentary about the world we live in. The speaker says: “My mother used to say there was no point in changing ourselves—we were women, and mothers, that was strange enough.” This writer definitely has their own inventive perspective.

JIMÉNEZPORTER LITERARY PRIZE POETRY

Poetry

1st Place: Ray Newby for “Docility in Limbo” and “i’ve been meaning to write to you again / 63.4 miles” 2nd Place: Chidinma Opaigbeogu for “I saw ‘Quan at the Family Dollar last weekend” 3rd Place: Caitlin Lee-Hendricks for “Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One”

Docility in Limbo Ray Newby I think you boys have forgotten that I used to be a house-fire. There wasn’t a day gone by I didn’t creep up the shelves at night, lick the walls from carpet to ceiling. You couldn’t have forgotten, those nights I ate the tissue & sinew & guts of your homes, the mornings-after with only the blackened kitchen tiles & brown bricks to keep you company. I might be getting ahead of myself — if you do not remember the wreckage, you must be forgetting who lit the fire in the beginning. Where you found so much kindling as to set flame into muscle & bone, I’ll never know. There was only one then, the first of you, but he had the biggest hands — all the better to crack open the lighter; to crack open my jaw. You didn’t know I would swallow (for you)? Because swallow I did. Your homes, your brothers & mothers & fathers, the bedframe, the cutlery, your grandmother’s rugs & dishes & wedding ring. There’s no chance you forgot how I lit up every cul-de-sac. And yes, you might have caught me before I could gobble up the rest of your American Suburbia, you might have saved the family cat & claimed the insurance check, I might be a flicker now,

one lit wick contained by glass redemption, but it only takes one drop of gas. One clumsy, stupid hand in the night. Just flip me over.

i've been meaning to write to you again / 63.4 miles Ray Newby do you remember? when we’d turn our shoes red stomping on those ants outside our elementary school? the teacher would yell until her face was fiery, you murderous boys and come inside now, but we’d just laugh and dance in the disaster. do you remember? you pulled me out of the pool four years later. i went under, kicking, my broken foot trapped under the pool ladder that he dropped. the party went dead silent but you’re the only one who dived in. do you remember? when i told you what he did after the football game you went to his house, stabbed him in the chest with a high-heeled shoe, do

you remember? that day in Atlantis we were swimming with those dolphins that weren’t really dolphins but we kept forgetting their names, remember? the way the suns glittered and the clouds waved and the waves were far from cloudy. i miss that, and driving in my car with the wind spilling out of us, even when you were too stubborn to ask for a cigarette. i remember, and i know i shouldn’t ask, but i saw a picture of you kissing that blue-eyed boy again. do you remember? falling out of love? did it flow away, like the river we trekked (what country? what continent?) or when we rode the gondola and pretended we weren’t losing to the new distance between us. sorry, i don’t want to bother you, but i have to know. did it come in spurts? did it hurt? can you hear me from there?

JUDGES’ NOTES “Docility in Limbo” and “i’ve been meaning to write to you again / 63.4 miles” “Docility in Limbo” mirrors the fire it describes, building into a tremendous poetic achievement. You can hear the poem crackle, roar, be quenched; then when you have to read it for a second time, because it’s just so good you might have missed something, the fire reignites. “i’ve been meaning to write you again / 63.4 miles” eloquently captures early-adulthood, when adolescence is still in the rearview mirror. It’s a very true-to-life poem, and its earnest and genuine questioning was immensely moving.

I saw ‘Quan at the Family Dollar last weekend Chidinma Opaigbeogu the one in southern PG by the Popeyes, the liquor store. he darted inside, Helly Hansen dark, and slick with rain, white Air Maxes, the leather turned gray, durag-smoothed waves. with his fingers bunched under his cuffs, his eyes scanned the rows of cans before he chose an Arizona, fingers leaving thin streaks in the condensation as he turned the can over in his hands looking for dents. he said something that made the cashier laugh, pretty light-skinned with a blonde ‘fro. I stepped into line, reached for a pack of Big Reds, said Hello ‘Quan, do you remember me? he looked at me hard, snapped his gum, said Nah, I don’t think I do, ma’am. oh, but you must remember a summer camp in a church down the street, how you baby cussed on the basketball court, raised your fists against the other six-year olds, threw a gang sign, said you learned it from your daddy, how your milk teeth dug into my palm as I whispered in your ear: it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay, how the older Sisters hissed: Black boys like you get called aggressive, challenged, ain’t able to do good, don’t bother. he unfolded a twenty from his pocket, laid it crisp on the counter. I waited until he had gathered his bills, his penny, said I’m praying for you. he nodded, cracking the tab, crumpling his receipt, said Take care, Sister. -after Eve L. Ewing’s I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store

JUDGES’ NOTES “I saw ‘Quan at the Family Dollar last weekend” The conversational tone and quotidian details of this poem belie the subject matter of such an immense theme as racial injustice, and this is its victory. We are anchored from the first moment of this poem, and it elegantly expands. The transition to direct address is stunning. This was written by a Poet, capital P.

Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One Caitlin Lee-Hendricks Having sex with me is like losing your car keys. Like how you throw yourself into the drivers’ seat. How you hold your breath when you swear you see something move in your rearview mirror. Like yanking down the emergency brake on a hill. As if a stoplight after midnight: a perpetual blinking yellow. Like swerving to the side when you see a near-dead deer in the road. As if you are struggling through fog and going 70 in a rainstorm. Sex with me is smudged red. How an ambulance darts past, a cop car pulls over the person behind you. Like how your stomach sinks into the gas pedal. As if sliding on black ice: hydroplaning and knowing no matter how many times you pump your breaks you’re still going to hurt the person in front

of you. As if you are waking up after it all and you’re the only one not bleeding.

JUDGES’ NOTES “Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One” This poem’s linked similes build upon each other to say the unspeakable. The sentiment expressed radiates from the poem—that life is never the same after such a tragedy, and it impacts more than the victim or survivor. But that it tells this in such a vivid, imagistic way results in a true poetic success. 54

STYLUS 2020 WINNERS

Cabrini Art Award Winners Alice Bi is a sophomore English and Government double major with a concentration in International Relations. She has lived in Taipei, Beijing, and Singapore. Alice currently resides in Maryland as a member of the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House. Balbina Yang is a junior studying English and Art History. She enjoys swimming and watching Food Network. Cassiel Arcilla is a freshman Studio Art major. She is a huge supporter of local creatives. Storytelling through film, art, and music are what makes her heart burst, and she is hoping one day she can share her vision on the big screen.

Jiménez-Porter Literary Prize: Prose Winners Chidinma Opaigbeogu I started writing poetry when I was twelve years old as a way of connecting with the world around me. Over time, my work has evolved and has become more of an exploration of myself. As a Nigerian-American, it was often hard for me to define myself. I felt too Nigerian to be fully American, and not Nigerian enough to claim my heritage. This conflict within me has strengthened my desire to know more about the country my family comes from and has spurred the writing of poetry that explores key events and experiences such as the Biafra War and the rich food culture in Nigeria. I hope to continue to use poetry as a tool to explore culture and identity and to find others who may have felt that same confusion as I did. Nina Holtz is a senior English and Communication double major at UMD. She is part of UMD's all-sketch comedy group, Sketchup, and enjoys writing both comedy and stories. Amanda Bachman I'm a Senior Marketing and English double major with a Creative Writing minor. I've been a part of the Jiménez-Porter Writers' House program, as well as the Smith Design and Innovation Fellows Program. I'm interested in using experimental methods to portray emotional distress in unconventional ways.

Jiménez-Porter Literary Prize: Poetry Winners Ray Newby is a sophomore English and Government & Politics major, as well as a first-year student in the Jiménez-Porter Writers' House. He is passionate about quesadilla night at the dining hall, uselessly hypothesizing about baseless literary theories, and eradicating inequality. Chidinma Opaigbeogu I started writing poetry when I was twelve years old as a way of connecting with the world around me. Over time, my work has evolved and has become more of an exploration of myself. As a Nigerian-American, it was often hard for me to define myself. I felt too Nigerian to be fully American, and not Nigerian enough to claim my heritage. This conflict within me has strengthened my desire to know more about the country my family comes from and has spurred the writing of poetry that explores key events and experiences such as the Biafra War and the rich food culture in Nigeria. I hope to continue to use poetry as a tool to explore culture and identity and to find others who may have felt that same confusion as I did. Caitlin Lee-Hendricks is a junior English and Women's Studies dual degree. An English honors student, she is currently finishing her thesis, which focuses on the study of the haiku, tanka, and haibun. Passionate about teaching, she is currently the teaching assistant for two classes: LGBT200 and ARHU320.

Staff Biographies Ethan Welsh is a senior English major with a Creative Writing minor. He likes hiking and mac n cheese. Balbina Yang is a junior English major and Art History minor. She enjoys swimming and watching Food Network. Marjorie Antonio is a sophomore History major and Asian American studies and Art History minor. Some of her favourite things in life are as follows: specialty focaccia bread from the UMD Farmers Market, 0.9 lead pencils, star-gazing, and slam poetry. Rao (Michelle) Li is a freshman double majoring in Computer Science and Art. She enjoys drawing, listening to KPOP, and gushing over other people’s art. Joan Rhee is a sophomore in the Art Education major. In her free time, she loves spending hours folding paper (aka origami) and loves filling up her sketchbooks. Rahul Jain is a sophomore aerospace engineering major who loves listening to and writing music. He also loves to make people laugh with Erasable Inc, UMD’s all-improvised performance group. Will Lee is a sophomore English and Computer Science double major who enjoys drawing, composing, and reading science fiction. Vivian Yeh is a sophomore Studio Art and Psychology double major. In addition to Stylus, she designs layouts for UMD’s cultural arts magazine, Unwind. She likes cats and dark humor. Matthew Herskovitz is a sophomore studying English and Government and Politics with a minor in Creative Writing. He learned how to ride a bike last April. Amadea Oberg is a freshman Film Studies and History double major. They are thrilled to be an editor of Stylus given that they spend the majority of their free time writing.

Alice Bi is a sophomore English and Government double major with a concentration in International Relations. Despite having grown up in Beijing and Singapore, her hometown—Taipei—is still the city she loves the most. Gabriella Meléndez is a junior English major minoring in Creative Writing, Rhetoric, and hopefully Spanish (if she can figure out her schedule). She is a technical writing intern for the Smith School of Business, a writer for the UMD Chapter of Her Campus, and has a Bookstagram account where she reviews books. Neida Mbuia-João is a senior English major and history minor. She writes when she can, reads when she can, but mostly you can find her re-watching the first three seasons of Gilmore Girls and calling its screenwriting “research.” Johnna Schmidt is the Director of the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she also teaches fiction classes. She can be contacted at jmschmid@umd.edu.

Acknowledgements We would like to thank the following organizations and individuals for their support. Their generosity has enabled us to publish a journal each year that fosters a community for undergraduate writers and artists, celebrating their passion and creativity. Furthermore, we would like to thank all of our contributors and award winners for their patience and strength amidst the coronavirus pandemic.

BENEFACTORS The Student Government Association The Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House John Dvorak

Stylus and the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House Stylus is largely funded by and supported by the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House, a living and learning program at the University of Maryland, College Park. Some of the journal’s staff members belong to the program, though any UMD student can be involved with Stylus. Located within Queen Anne’s Hall, the Writers’ House is a campus-wide literary hub for the study of creative writing across cultures. Students hone their skills through workshops, colloquia, and lectures led by Writers’ House faculty and visiting authors. The two-year program is open to students of all majors and years. For more information about joining Writers’ House, visit our website at writershouse.umd.edu or email the director, Johnna Schmidt, at jmschmid@umd.edu.

Submission Guidelines Stylus accepts high-quality submissions of poetry, prose, art, photography, and audio/performance from all current University of Maryland undergraduate students. Our reading period is from January to March, and our final deadlines tend to be late January for writing and early March for visual arts and audio/performance. We accept up to five total pieces per submission season. The work is put through a rigorous, anonymous review process. A brief biography to accompany the work in event of publication must be submitted with the piece. We maintain flexibility in the layout process.

No work is guaranteed acceptance until publication. 1. Do not include any identifying information in the document containing your work. Pieces submitted with names, UIDs, bios, or other identifying information in the document itself will be rejected. 2. You may submit to more than one category. We would prefer that you cap your submission count to five total pieces across categories. 3. A valid UID is required to submit, and must be included in the “Cover Letter” field. Only University of Maryland undergraduate students may submit to Stylus. 4. Your name and a brief third-person bio must be included in the “Cover Letter” field. The bio will accompany the work in event of publication. 5. Each piece should be submitted in a separate document. Do not group pieces into one file or document.

POETRY You may submit up to 5 poems.

PROSE Stylus has a 3,000 word limit on all prose pieces, with a sweet spot of 1,500 words. If any edits or revisions seem necessary, Stylus will contact you as soon as possible. You may submit up to 3 pieces.

MULTILINGUAL Work should be accompanied by an English translation in the document file. Submit multilingual prose pieces to the prose category and multilingual poetry pieces to the poetry category.

ART Files should be at 300dpi or greater. Submitters should also include information about the title and medium in the comment field. Students unable to send their pieces electronically should contact our Art Editors. You may submit up to 5 pieces.

AUDIO/PERFORMANCE These submissions can consist of music, spoken-word/slam poetry, dance, and more. Files should be MP3 for audio submissions and MP4 or MOV for performance-based arts that have been filmed. We also accept links to SoundCloud, YouTube, Vimeo, or other easy-to-navigate platforms for music or performances. You may submit up to 3 pieces. If you have questions or concerns, please email styluslit@gmail.com.

Guidelines may change over time. Keep checking our website at styluslit.org.

Stylus 2020 Winners

Articles inside

Winner Biographies

Staff Biographies

Acknowledgements

Submission Guidelines

Stylus and the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House

Rape Poem Epilogue: for the Next One, Caitlin Lee-Hendricks

Table of Contents

Editors’ Note

Awards

63.4 miles, Ray Newby 44

Editors and Staff

The Giant, Nina Holtz

Chidinma Opaigbeogu

And the Water Called Her, Chidinma Opaigbeogu